


si vis pacem para bellum

by batyatoon



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Chroma Conclave Arc, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Plot Hole Repair, Sort Of, a mystery no one thought was a mystery and didn't even really need solving, excuse me I did not order these feels, watsonian explanations for doyleist decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-07 01:59:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14661000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batyatoon/pseuds/batyatoon
Summary: Tiberius left his friends on the road to Whitestone, promising to return with help, which he did not.  When they encountered him again weeks later at their keep, it was only to learn that he was leaving Vox Machina.He never told them the real reason.





	si vis pacem para bellum

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains spoilers through episode 64 of Critical Role Campaign #1. Please do not post anything in the comments that might be spoilery for later episodes.

Most of what Tiberius tells the rest of Vox Machina, when they come home earlier than he expected and find him packing up his laboratory instead of already gone again, is true.  Or, well, a great deal of it is true. Some of it, anyway. Enough.

What he _doesn’t_ tell them is … well, quite a great deal, actually.

He doesn’t tell them why he was so close-mouthed, at the time, about his real reason for leaving the party halfway to Whitestone.  Damn all, he’d hoped, he’d _really_ hoped, to return at the head of an armed squadron -- maybe not the fifty foot and fifty wing he’d initially asked for, but at least ten of each, or even ten in all.  He’d been sure of being able to talk his father into that much, when he traced the teleportation circle for Draconia. But he can admit it to himself if not to his friends: he wanted to surprise them, impress them.  Show off a little, perhaps. Well, if that was punishable pride, he’s certainly been punished enough for it.

He doesn’t tell them that the “trying to secure aid for Whitestone” part of his self-appointed mission took perhaps two days of his three weeks of absence.  It took that long for his father to drop the guise of impatience to reveal genuine alarm and dismay, and for his own vehemence to tip that dismay over into full-blown anger.  The ensuing fight was loud, furious, and brutally cut short: _As of this morning, your ambassadorial status is revoked. If you go to Whitestone or return to Emon, it will be without the leave of the Council and will carry the penalty of permanent exile for you and for any other confounded fool who leaves here in your company, do I make myself clear?_

Two days to make his case to his father and lose, so utterly that his next planned step of speaking to the Council became transparently pointless.  Two weeks to stew in his own impotent fury, stalking around his old rooms in the manor house, snarling in three languages at the servants, at his sister Drakkia, at himself in the mirror; once at Lockheed, and bitterly reproaching himself for it afterwards.  Scrying for his friends in Whitestone once a day, swearing to himself that if he saw them in true danger of their lives he would use another teleportation circle and join them, and to hell with his father’s orders.

Seeing them emerge victorious without his help.

He doesn’t tell them about the following week, and the longer, quieter, far more painful conversation with his father.

\-----

Kruvanis was more tired than angry when he came to Tiberius’s rooms and asked to speak with him; even his anger itself was tired.  He refused a stiff offer of refreshment, seated himself on the divan with his tail coiled beneath, and waited for Tiberius to sit opposite him.  And then hesitated several seconds longer, before giving a sigh that seemed to deflate him, and sagging heavily.

“Tiberius, you attempted to declare war on a foreign country on my behalf, on your own bare word.  That wasn’t just ill-advised or presumptuous, that was treasonable.” Tiberius opened his mouth on an inarticulate noise of protest at that word, and his father rode right over him.  “It took me a great deal of _very_ fast talking to persuade the Council that when you wrote ‘I invoke the ambassador’s right of wartime,’ that was in the nature of a _request_ to invoke wartime, and not an attempt to arrogate to yourself the legal right to declare war.  I would ask what you were thinking, but truth to tell, that much is perfectly clear.”

The faint tinge of acid in his tone … drained away, just when Tiberius would have expected it to intensify into venom.  Instead his voice was quiet, sober, still with that troubling weariness. “You saw a terrible thing and wished to destroy it.  I can hardly fault you for that. And … it has not escaped my notice that you did so primarily for the sake of one of your adventuring companions.”

“Those --” Tiberius growled, and hastily edited out the word _buttholes_ \--  “those _blackguards_ massacred his family.  And took over his home. Of course we were going to help him avenge them.  Any of them would do the same for me, if something like that were to happen here --”  His father held up a hand, and with an effort Tiberius made himself stop talking.

“My son,” he started, and again sighed heavily.  “I know you’ve been happy with these people. But it’s become clear to me that you’ve allowed them to gain a disproportionate significance in your life, to a degree not befitting a Stormwind. Much as you and I both might wish it otherwise … I cannot allow this to continue.”

Spoken in cold anger, in command, in contempt, even in disappointment, the same words might have sparked an answering anger in him, steeled his resolve to argue.  But it was said with regret, even apology, and that left him floundering in a tangle of bewildered dismay.

“The Council will not restore your diplomatic rank, Tiberius.  But you have leave to return to Emon, to gather your possessions and set your affairs in order, and to bid your friends farewell.”  A long pause, and Kruvanis would not meet his eyes. “Should you decide to remain with them, I will see to it that you are not pursued; I can give you that much.  But if you choose that, you choose exile. And … I would ask you to come home.”

It took several seconds for Tiberius to find any way to respond to that.

“Father,” he said finally, awkwardly, “I know I overstepped my bounds as an ambassador, and I apologize -- but you know diplomacy was never my real calling in the first place.  I’ve been learning so much, out in the world, and I’ve been doing good -- and I, I _found_ one of the artifacts I was hunting for -- Father, it doesn’t make _sense_ for me to stay in Draconia, I’m _useless_ here.”

Kruvanis breathed out slowly, tapping his claws together.  “Perhaps not. I was not going to speak of this to you yet, but … the clerics have been talking for days of ill omens.  Something is going to happen. Very soon now.”

“Something,” he said blankly. “What kind of something?”

“They've foreseen terrible danger to all Draconia, they say, and possibly beyond. I don't know anything more than that; as far as I know, nobody does. I’ve sent messages to your brothers, to call them home as well.” He rubbed hard at the edge of one horn, as though to stave off an incipient headache, or perhaps to hide the expression on his face. “You may not be what I had hoped for in you, Tiberius. But you are a brilliant sorcerer, and a skilled fighter.  And … in the weeks to come, that may be what Draconia needs.”

It was very much not the acknowledgement he'd long hoped for from his father, and the moment of recognizing that was bitter. But if he was needed at home, really needed …

“I do need to get my things,” he said slowly.  “And at least leave a note for … for my companions.  I wouldn’t want them to worry.”

\-----

It’s probably a good thing that he spent so much time composing the letter in his head, while packing up his things.  It means that he has his reasons marshaled, rehearsed, available to spin out to the others when they arrive before he’s ready.

He still trips up, and almost gives himself away, when he tells them he plans to revisit his old pursuits -- and then asks them to tell Allura that she’s always welcome to visit him in Draconia.  None of them seem to notice that he’s contradicted himself. Or maybe none of them remember that his old pursuits are what led him to leave Draconia in the first place.

The truest thing he tells them, probably, is _I’m very terrible at goodbyes_.

It’s just as true a handful of days later, when he sends Lockheed fluttering down to the ravine below with the command _Hide!_ , to get him out of danger.  And a half-hour or so after that, when he has to leave his father in the makeshift infirmary behind the ruined and ice-choked gates of Tyriex, to go help his younger siblings rally the surviving defenders on the city’s north side before the dragon comes around on its second pass.  His mother and his brother Faeryn are already cut off by this time, halfway down the archipelago.

There really isn’t time to say much in the way of goodbyes to any of them anyway.  He could almost be grateful for that.

There’s so much there isn’t time for.  Time to revisit his idea of the mirror array weapon, build a working prototype at least.  Time to get the seers to find out anything more than _Emon has fallen, the Cloudtop District lies in ruins_ \-- of course none of them had any reason to look more closely at Grayskull Keep or Allura’s tower, not with the white dragon already bearing down on the city.  Time to compose another letter, perhaps give it to Lockheed, in case …

Well.  There’ll be time for any number of things once they’ve fought off this -- this jumped-up frostworm, he tells himself firmly.  That’s a good line, maybe he’ll use it later.

Not that there’s much later left.  He can already see the thicker mass of white moving towards them through the driving sleet, hear the heavy _whuff_ of massive wings and the answering roar of the still-rising storm.

“Oh gods, do you feel that?” comes the voice of one of the younger soldiers nearby, in a moan of fear. “It’s bringing the storm winds --”

“That’s where you’re wrong, friend,” he answers, raising his voice to be heard by the entire line of defenders -- down to Drakkia on the left flank and up to Jerahd on the right -- and baring his teeth in a fighting grin.  “The Stormwinds are already here.”

An appreciative rumble goes up from the rest of the line; Drakkia’s laugh rings over it, high and exultant.  Tiberius grips his staff with cold fingers, and readies a fireball, and works hard to feel as confident as that sounded.  They can do this. And it’ll make a wonderful story to tell the rest of Vox Machina sometime after it’s over. Because they’re alive, he tells himself firmly; of course they are, they’ll sort out whatever nonsense has happened in Emon, they’re _fine_.

It’s very nearly the last thing he ever tells anyone.  And it’s truer than he knows, or ever will.

**Author's Note:**

> The names of Tiberius's siblings are from the Stormwind family line as [tweeted by Orion Acaba](https://twitter.com/orionacaba/status/687149611606147072) and listed on the [Critical Role Wiki](http://criticalrole.wikia.com/wiki/Tiberius_Stormwind). As far as I have been able to determine, none of the family's fates are known.


End file.
